Sunday

Between seasons we anticipate change. Like daisies, we push through desolate earth in our desperate scramble for life.

Eventually, sun lights up our faces. Pale though we are, we dare to hope. At dusk, we bloom shyly.

Then, the seasons change again, and we succumb to that sinking feeling.

Friday, Night

This man is in my head. I don't mean that I am thinking of someone. I am not. He inhabits my mind, staining my thoughts with his oily depression.

He lives in a tenement, bleak even against the industrial landscape. Grey bleeds into grey; only rust breaks the palette. On the worn grass outside the block where he lives, I stand and gaze up towards him.

Standing here, I think our breaths are synchronised. I have never seen him, only felt him, and yet I know beyond any shadow of doubt: we are well acquainted.